Moria
by CimentSemantique
Summary: A collection of isolated shorts about Dwarrowdelf after the Balrog settled in its roots. I mean to have one for each Durin. I'm still not sure what I'm doing and the rating is still subject to change in case things get out of hand.
1. I 587

They did not need the ravens to know that the cities in the Blue Mountains had been lost. Far off in the West where the Elves waged war with the ease with which a child tears its clothes, where for years now the sky had been alight as if the Sun could not bring itself to set, there was a sudden silence. They had awoken in the night to cries from the watch-men alerted by a hideous roaring and a shaking in the ground, but in the time it took them to collect themselves the dreadful stillness had come hard and heavy like fallen soil. Had Durin lived to see the sky grow light, and had lived through the war to see its end, he would have had words of wisdom and comfort to give them – but there was no Durin, and from Mickleburg and Hollowbold would come no ravens.

In the nights that followed the children thrashed in their beds in formless terror, and there was as if a coldness come to their halls, a chill deeper than the simple dark of earth. It was a dread more bitter than simple mourning but they could not put a name to it, and somehow in their great halls the Dwarves of Dwarrowdelf did not see the shadows lengthen – subtly, quietly. Tiny shadows, dark and still – darker than moonless night, blacker than dreamless sleep.

Fleeting shadows, gone unnoticed, waiting in every dusty corner.

Heavy shadows.


	2. II 410

Winter had come and Vit could not find her sister.

The Dimrill Dale was dark, and snow dusted the ground, and her little voice echoed against the mountain slopes softly. It was weaker than it had been, but hours had passed and still Lit would not answer. Vit had searched all the halls (and been chased out of many) and all the grounds as far as she dared venture, but there was no sign of the little Dwarfling who had lost at least one of her hairpins. It was a pretty thing, though Vit could not see it now: a fine silver trinket, inlaid with clear sparkling gems to match Lit's clear sparkling eyes.

"Lit!"

"_Vit_."

She jumped. The guard had changed for the night while she was out, and here was Nyi with his hands on his hips and his helmet askew.

"The sun sets quickly, Vit. Why are you not home?"

Wordlessly she held out the pin. Nyi was twenty years older than she was and if he could not piece her shouting together with the pin then the guard really ought to raise their standards. And lo! there furrowed his brow, but as Vit opened her mouth to tease he reached into his pocket and pulled out the other pin. She did not move to take it. He did not move to give it.

"Where did you find..?"

"In the First Deep, not an hour ago. You..?"

"By the well by the Main Hall, after lunch."

Nyi's eyes flashed. "The well? You are not-"

Vit puffed herself up. "I _know_ what I am not to do. I saw it in the dark. I did not know what it was, and then I did, and then I could not find Lit, and then I went looking for Lit. I have looked all through the Levels and I almost went into the Deeps and I am now returning from the Dale and I still have not found Lit."

She bit her cheeks but did not weep. Nyi looked at the pin in his hands before holding it out to her, his eyes to the ground.

"Go home to your mam, little cousin," he said softly, "Better for her to see one of you before the night is over."

"But Lit-"

"_Tomorrow_, Vit. Those who remain in the mines have promised to watch for her, and tomorrow I will take you looking again."

She bit her cheeks harder and closed her hand around the second pin. She did not weep until a week thereafter, when still no word had come of Lit and their bed was huge and empty and she could have sworn the well had leered at her as she had passed it in the waning afternoon light.


	3. II 850

"And what exactly do you mean by _black abyss_?"

Celebrimbor lifted his eyes and stilled his hand, but did not turn. "I need a word to hold the place," he said, gesturing to the sketch.

He swore he felt Narvi's grin widen, and continued to stare forward as the Dwarf circled around him to sit by his side on the bench. "You know," he chuckled, idly playing with his tankard of ale, "I never understood that nickname you Elves gave it, nor why you prefer it to its real name. Do you so fear the idea of being out of reach of starlight?"

Celebrimbor's eyes flicked up. "You are rather fond of starlight, master Dwarf, if I recall."

"But I do not tremble when I am not in it! Master Elf, you would not bear to be underground, while I am equally content above and below. And do you deny that the sky is not itself a chasm, or that the jewels glimmer in the earth as little stars?"

"The sky is wide, Narvi; the earth is heavy."

"And it is the heaviness, and not the emptiness, that you call 'void!' My delicate friend, what bluntness in the word, and you the lord of the smiths of Hollin, the best they have to offer. Are all your kind so linguistically deficient?"

Celebrimbor cocked an eyebrow. "I imagine you prefer the _far_ superior Dwarves' word, then?"

Narvi wrinkled his nose in suspicion. "Are you getting at something?"

"Your word is Dwarrowdelf."

"It is an honorable name!"

"Certainly, it is. But, if you would reproach the bluntness of _black abyss_..."

"But at least Dwarrowdelf is the name _we_ give it."

"And an elegant and creative name it is. There is poetry, at least, in the abyss."

Narvi raised the tankard to his lips with a glower. "I never had much of a love for Elvish poetry. It wibbles too much for my tastes."

Celebrimbor snorted, fighting down a smirk. "I could, if you think the abyss contemptible beyond contempt, use the Sindarin word. I am, after all, drawing in Tengwar, and your sounds do not-"

Narvi interrupted with a spluttering into his ale. "Certainly not! Khazad-dûm will never on any of its doors bear that bastardization by incompetent tongues."

Celebrimbor turned fully now, his hands raised in frustration and his mouth agape in a sort of amusement. "Then what name should I use, dear Narvi? There are only so many, unless you would have me invent a new one."

Foam in his beard, Narvi gave Celebrimbor a crinkly-eyed scowl.

"Leave it be for now. We will have words about this again, but for now, leave it. I came to tell you that the autumn flowers have bloomed and that they look lovely in the moonlight."

"I am not finished, Narvi."

"You have been at work for days and you are paler than the newest Dwarrow-babe. Come outside with me. It will do you good to clear your head."

* * *

The light of dawn glinted in Narvi's hair as in copper wire, and in Celebrimbor's as in pitch. The signs on the door had vanished with the moon but still the Elf crouched by it, fingertips resting lightly against the stone. "You're crafted these beautifully, Narvi," he murmured.

Narvi clapped his hand on Celebrimbor's shoulder with a barking laugh. "And you've drawn on them beautifully, Celebrimbor. Though I did see, before the sun chased it away, that you have stood by your abyss."

Celebrimbor leaned back on his haunches, retracting his hand. "I am sure that even Durin would have agreed that Hadhodrond would have been intolerable."

Narvi grimaced. "Even on your lips it sounds impotent and ugly. It is best with this. It has a poetry. It has wit."

"Self-awareness, perhaps?"

"Careful, jewelsmith. Flowers bloom in my fair city-"

"Only because you have carved them into the walls, stonesmith."

"-as a taunt against any foul darkness dares venture near."

"Oh, is that what they're for?"

Narvi opened his mouth in retort, but shut it quickly, and satisfied himself with a narrow glare and a narrow mouth that barely betrayed his dimples.

"Elves have no sense of sophistication."

Celebrimbor laughed, shyly. Narvi, after a pause, motioned to the top of the door where unseen Tengwar named the greatest Dwarf-city a pit.

"I will deny all knowledge of this should complaints be voiced."

"Bah, Narvi. Your people are lighthearted enough. Even Durin is not so somber he will not appreciate the cheek."

"_I_ am lighthearted, Celebrimbor. Durin takes his scowl to bed and grinds it into his breakfast."

As the sun rose, so the shadows at their feet slithered back towards the carved-out maw of the mine. Celebrimbor shuddered as if a breeze had passed, and Narvi shifted.

"We are due for breakfast now, o Lord of Eregion. The doors shall go up after our bellies quit their rumbling."

"But I am not-"

"Do not make me mother you."

The shadows stuck to the stone as the two smiths turned to rejoin the river.

* * *

**Note**: I had to make a lot of assumptions in regards to dating and other details, since the bulk of the information on the Second Age concerns Númenor, which I have no vendetta against but which is not relevant to the fic at hand. Celebrimbor and Narvi's characterizations are dosed heavily with headcanon, and I'm pretty sure I had to make up the date completely. It had to have been between II 750 and II 1200, but beyond that, [?]. I narrowed it to before the construction of Barad-dûr begins in II 1000, and then tried to make it closer to the founding of Eregion, but I want it very clear that it isn't canon. It could have been anywhere in a centuries-long range, and I resent having to make up a number.


	4. II 1701

It took over a hundred years for the reason for Celebrimbor's distress to become evident. They had guessed, certainly - especially after the first horns had sounded in the East - but they did now know for sure. His seclusion was older than any of them, and though the Elves may have had a memory of the smith as open and smiling, the Dwarves did not. He had not recovered from Narvi's death. He had not resisted the fair stranger's advances. True, his friendship with the people of the Dwarrowdelf had not waned, but _something_ about him had, and no-one save perhaps Durin, who could not have had much more than an inkling, was sure of what it was.

It did not matter now: Celebrimbor was four years dead, and the magic ring he'd given Durin nine years hidden in the thick coffers of Dwarrowdelf. It seemed the whole of the Wilderness was ablaze, and even in the night the hills of Hollin could be seen all the way from the West-gate.

If Durin, poring over the dusty chronicles of Ages past, found the fires historically concerning, he said nothing. But his face was grim of late, grimmer than anyone had ever seen it; and he lead his host to the aid of the Elves with a certain tautness to his person.

"The Lone-lands are ours, also," he had muttered. "If we do not act now we forfeit our right to our own holdings."

When his lieutenant added, helpfully, that they had a friendship with the Elves still, he did not disagree; but he wrung his hands absently, and his gaze wandered west over the flames to the mountains too far to see.


	5. II 3430

The city was so empty of late. Even the hammering in the Deeps was more quiet, less full.

Onar sat with his little hammer, tapping away at a jewel. It was some sort of blue, but he was not sure what it was. His master would know, but his master had gone off to the war with the others. He was still alive, Onar thought. They had received no message to the contrary.

Beside him was Regin, who though plait-haired and even-tempered was a whelp, and who did not understand war.

"My _sister_ has gone out to the east to fight. Why do _you_ remain here?"

Onar rolled his eyes and whacked at Regin's knuckles with the hammer. "We cannot all flounce off to war, Regin. An is a warrior. I am a smith. _You_," he added pointedly, "are twelve."

"Thirteen!" Regin said, indignant.

"A child," Onar said, and returned to his jewel. Odd to have found it where he had - there were few of them left so far up in the ground. "We cannot leave Dwarrowdelf unattended. Those of us who fight go off to fight, but those of us with more delicate professions remain. She cannot be abandoned, even for such a time must be given to war. And if we all went off to war, and if it took us all to the Halls, what would become of her? It is a desperate people, Regin, that sends off all itself into battle. I pray we never come to that."

Regin was hushed.

"Has there been word from An, by the way?" Onar asked.

Regin's eyes lit up. "Came just this morning! The host has reached the Stone-lands. Did you know that Men do not allow their women to fight?"

Onar snorted. The strange habits of Men were known far and wide, and if the other races ever laughed at them about it, they seemed oblivious. "They have less sense than even the Elves in that regard," he said, and frowned. "Regin, what does this look like to you?"

Regin shrugged, barely concealing his wry smile. "A sapphire, maybe. What do I know, Onar? I am a child from a warrior family."

"'tis too pale for a sapphire, Regin. A curious thing, found in a curious place."

"Maybe it is the eye of some ghastly creature that lurked in the walls of the ground in days of old," Regin said, "and is now petrified and fossilized!"

Onar pulled a face. Children had an imagination.

"When Aurvang returns he may be able to tell."

"I think he will tell you it is an eye."

"_Regin_."


	6. III 1980

A peculiar thing, silence. The Deeps should have the shouting of miners, the roaring of fires, the striking of hammers. But there was a silence now, slow and terrible. It was climbing, the silence. It was coming up through the Deeps; putting out the fires, quieting the miners, throwing down the hammers. It was coming to the Levels. It was coming to the city.

They could see terrible things in the shadows now. Big claws and white teeth and tiny, beady eyes; and a few though that the shadows themselves had come alive. Maybe they had. But then the claws and teeth came out of the shadows and they had arms and heads - such grinning heads, such hungry heads. Such clicking, such squelching. Such biting.

But they were merely heralds: behind them came the silence, wreathed in flame. It was not a Dwarf-flame.


	7. III 2799

A cry rang out through the crowd; clearer than the waters of the Silverlode, hotter than the fires at the heart of the earth. Dáin, his father's head still rolling down the slopes of Azanulbizar, called to the Orc chieftain with wild eyes and flashing ax. Thorin, his head spinning but still mercifully stuck to his shoulders, reached for his kinsman with a warning hiss: "Remember what they did to Thrór. See what they have done to Náin."

Dáin met Thorin's eyes, his teeth bared: "I see what they have done to him," and, with a strength Thorin had not expected of him, tore his shoulder away and launched himself up the hill towards the gates.

Azog fell quickly under Dáin's furious blows and hacks, and as one the Orcs fell silent. Dáin stood tall, and with a pointed disgust kicked the Orc's head away from the entryway. Perhaps he growled a war-cry; no-one later remembered. But the Dwarves picked themselves up again to topple the horde, and his eyes met Thorin's, only for an instant, his jaw set. Steadily the sun rose, and steadily they picked and warded off the remaining Orcs.

As the din ceased, they saw Dáin at the top of the slope, his back turned to them but the steps littered with felled Orcs. Staring still past the gate where the sun did not seem to reach, he did not move till his cousin came up behind him. Black were the halls beyond him, and black the look on Dáin's face as he turned to hold Thorin off. "What is it, cousin?" Thorin said, his sword loose in his hand, "What do you see?"

"Nothing," Dáin said awkwardly, as if he had only just loosened his jaw. "I see nothing."

Thorin, puzzled, did not take his eyes of Dáin's face. Thráin was moving behind them, shouting words of congratulations and encouragement. "Onward!" came a voice. "Back to the Delf!"

But Dáin stepped past Thorin and walked towards Thráin with his dark look still affixed to his face. "Nay, my king," he said, his young voice steadier than any of them had expected of it. "The way is shut to us still."

And Thráin must have seen something in the little lord's face then, because the argument he would have made withered quickly.

Thorin, who had turned to watch Dáin walk away, did not turn again to look past the gate.


	8. IV ?

The Halls are hollow. The Deeps echo. Durin the Last lies upon his death-bed.

"They have sealed the gates, my lord," someone says in tones so hushed they should not carry.

Durin smiles, grimly. "How many remain?" he whispers, his throat so parched he could well have swallowed the Book of Mazarbul.

"There are six of us, my lord," another voice mumbles, "Six of us, and you."

Durin laughs a coughing laugh. "Of course there are."

"My lord?"

Durin motions for water, and it is brought to him. He smacks his lips deliberately. A third voice from behind the decanter says, "And the outside world will never breach the gates, my lord?"

Durin rolls what is left of his eyes. "Who would find us, Motsognir? The Elves have left us. The Men have forgotten us."

"The world is old," the first voice drifts back towards them.

"We are old," Durin snaps back.

Someone else coughs. Motsognir's veined hand trembles so slightly - but then, it always does, of late.

"We are all old," Durin mutters, his eyelids fluttering shut. "We are old and the tip of Gundabad is blunted."

There is an uneasy hiss of assent.

The earth rumbles.

Durin the Last breathes his last.


End file.
